Life After Death
by danecross
Summary: Michael finds himself stuck in Miami once again after his first post-burn-notice mission goes wrong. This gives him another chance to try to admit his feeling to Fi. But first she will have to forgive him for leaving her again.
1. Chapter 1

Set up –Life after death

When you're burned, you've got nothing. No cash, no credit, no job history. You're stuck in whatever city they decide to dump you in. You do whatever work comes your way. You rely on anyone who's still talking to you. Bottom line: as long as you're burned, you're not going anywhere.

As it turns out, being dead isn't much different. You still have no cash because all of your past assets are in the process of being distributed by the courts in accordance with the last will and testiment. You have no credit because well a) You shouldn't need it and b) No one expects you to be around to pay it back. Your job history no longer matters because an invalid social security number makes you unemployable. You are stuck in whatever city you wake up in because, you were supposed to have already "moved on" in a big picture kind of way. Pretty much you rely on anyone who has denied the overwhelming documentation of your passing to continue seeing you.

That's the bizarre status Michael found himself living eight months after bringing down an organization lead by a man named Vaugn and clearing up his Burn Notice. He found himself holding a unique perspective on what it meant to be the living dead. All sarcastic subtext aside, Michael was very much alive despite what the United States government had to say on the topic.

(Read a fan fiction titled A promise to say goodby for that part of the story.)

Chapter 1

Michael lay against the cotton encased mattress with a deaden lifelessness. The digital clock on the bed table counted down the early am minutes before his open eyes. The dim light cast from the readout flickered over the uneven rise and fall of his chest. He lay pinned between muddled recent memories that tortured his sleep and the bleak prospects of his future.

Michael Weston had succeeded against all odds. He had found the people that had burned him, put Vaughn out of action, cleared the false accusations that had put his career on hold and left him stranded in Miami. He had regained classification as an asset and had been re-deployed to the international playing field. The life he had lost to the burn notice had been returned. In other words he had finally gotten everything he thought he had wanted and never had the cliché, beware what you wish for, applied more.

He was alive. It was about the most positive thought he could summon. Fi lay curled asleep against his back. The soft sound of her breathing cut Michael with guilt. The first time they had met, he had left Fiona because he hadn't known any other way to live. He had minimized his regret with the rationalization that her returned affection had been for his cover, Michael McBride, a man with similar beliefs and cultural background. He hadn't realized the impact of having Fiona come to Miami. He hadn't considered the consequences because he focused every action, every choice trying to escape Miami and everything it represented. Fi had pursued him all the way to Miami and what really destroyed him was that she hadn't taken one look and bolted.

But six months deep undercover in Kyrgyzstan, fresh from clearing his burn notice, had proven how incapable he was of being the man he had been. Even worse, he realized he wasn't capable of getting over Fiona a second time. The mission objective had been completed but Michael knew in his gut that he had lost focus and mishandled the situation. His performance was so poor the US government had chosen to bury him beneath a few thousand pounds of munitions and declare him dead rather than attempt extraction from a politically charged fiasco. The wounds, mental and physical, had yet to heal. The stitches still itched. Sam had pulled a miracle just to keep him alive, but he had Fiona to thank for his sanity.

Michael wondered how long he could cling to Fi before his proximity cost her more than she could pay. She deserved someone more, someone with options, someone less likely to get her killed. In his business, what you don't know is frequently what kills you. His ability to predict people's actions, to manipulate situations enabled him to be an effective spy. Fi had tracked him down, seen who he was, what he came from. A journey he hadn't made himself for fear of what he would find. But what she saw hadn't made her run and he couldn't understand why.

It fed his self doubt. A lack of self worth whispered his fear that Fi's attraction was just a continuation of her fascination for dangerous situations. But she had found her way past the walls of his reserve and now he was too selfish to make her choose a better match. For better or worse, Fiona had him until she decided otherwise.

He was a fighter, not a lover. A damning sentence that had haunted him from the moment his father had made the classification. Michael slowly flexed his wrist to feel the sutures in his skin burn. His thoughts slide sideways to another exemplary father figure of his, Larry Sizemore. Larry was complicated, a tangled mix of creator, destroyer, and walking cautionary tale. Larry had taken an angry, dangerous young man with an inability to follow orders and taught him how to contribute on a global scale. The US government had written Michael off, dropped their bombs and delivered notification and certificate of death to his mother but Larry had had other ideas. Michael wondered what those other ideas were. What was Larry playing at? He had stopped trusting his mentor years ago. Michael closed his eyes. He could feel a storm building on the horizon. He needed to sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Special Agent Janette Pelto considered the drenched crime scene from a window seat behind blacked out privacy glass. The standard issue, black, FBI suburban sat idling, consuming gross amounts of gasoline at the government's expense just to keeping a current of warmth circulating the interior. Seniority had it's perks. She sat alone, beside an open laptop that had reverted to sleep mode. It amused her that her computer was a narcoleptic. She tapped the keyboard and waited while the memory drives struggled to throw off their power efficient dormancy. Logging past the security prompt the screen tiled a mosaic of sordid photos. Each photo documenting a pedigree of depravity whose only lack seemed to be sexual assault. But every society produced byproducts like the man that had done these acts.

The documentation on him was curiously detailed but it didn't explain why someone of her security clearance had been assigned to investigate his latest bloody act. His files were sealed, classified, and included a death certificate that should have signaled the end of his misdeeds. He had probably turned states witness. That was the easiest explanation for the inconsistency behind the death certificate and the act that had forced her out into the miserable weather. She scrolled down a detailed timeline of misdeeds. Tall, dark and corrupt apparently enjoyed travel, hobnobbing with local crime lords, and explosives. Most likely the product of an abusive childhood, Janette thought. Probably had exemplary parental figures she added sarcastically.

Janette sighed and locked her screen. This was a case better suited for the younger, more eager agents that had begun to supplant her colleagues. She pulled a compact umbrella from the pocket of her graphite overcoat and stepped out into the miserable DC morning. Her heels clicked with authority as she strode toward a cluster of officers taking shelter beneath the canvas erected to preserve the contents of a battered dumpster. Janette stepped beside the dumpster and shook out her umbrella. Rain clattered against the overhead canvas. She glanced over the dumpster's battered edge to study the pale fleshy shapes inside. A week of spring showers had likely scoured the corpses clean of evidence.

The ranking officer studied her with a hint of interest. She tucked that information, along with the fact that he wore a wedding ring away to be used at a later time. Appearance definitely helped in her profession. Being attractive could get you cooperation or by you leeway when stepping in to take over another man's investigation. So she doggedly battled age to keep her figure; awake every morning at 6 to hit the gym before work, lean meats, and a careful diet of whole grains with antioxidant rich fruits and veggies. Her only vice was the occasional whisky, an acceptable practice considering alcohol was a necessary ingredient for networking in Washington DC. Janette pulled a cell phone from the inner pocket of her tailored suit and programmed it to begin recording audio. Do we know anything? She asked.

Ranking officer J. McMullin shrugged. "Nothing concrete, we are still waiting for CSI to show up. But I have to assume our perp has a history of jumping state lines for you boys to show up." Janette considered then nodded, careful to keep her response off the audio record her phone was keeping. CYA was a hard habit to shake. She studied the dismembered pieces and J. McMullin stepped to her side. He clutched a steaming papercup emblazoned with dunkin donuts pink and orange. "Kinda looks like he's sending a message, huh?"

Each limb had been severed and piled together. A pile of feet. A pile of arms. Torsos… Every piece organized and accounted for advertising the lack of any head. "Have we located any of the heads?" Janette asked.

"Nowhere to be found." McMullin answered. "We had a couple k9 units comb the area. Won't be a problem IDing the bodies though. Young twenty something bodies like these here in DC most likely work in government. We'll get em off the finger prints."

"Have you ever seen anything like this before?" Jennette asked.

McMullin transferred his coffee to a single hand and hooked his thumb into his belt while he gave her question some thought. Janette ignored his theatrics and turned back to the dumpster to make a preliminary body count. Four, one man, three women. But the CSI would have to confirm once they group all the pieces.

"Nah," McMullin finally answered with a huff. The action seemed to accentuate the pudge that had begun to collect over his belly. His wife was likely a decent cook. "We get plenty of wackos coming to the capitol, but anyone connected would have taken the hands as well as the heads. But that would have been my guess because tossing them in the garbage in neat piles seems like the deed of someone sending a message."

The agent assigned as Janette's driver jogged up handing her a rain wilted print out. Thumbing the touch screen of her phone to end it's recording she handed J. McMullin her card. "Thanks for the help. Call me if anything comes up." Janette said punctuating the invitation with an intimate smile. J straightened and pushed his chest forward like a preening rooster. Shame on you Janette thought to herself. Turning she ducked to share her driver's umbrella on the way back to the suburban.

Draping her overcoat over the back of an empty seat, Janette settled back into the cocoon of warmth beside her laptop. She skimmed the information on the limp slightly translucent paper in her lap. Her lips parted in surprise. "Well, well," she mused aloud. "It seems this storm has a silver lining after all." Her driver looked up to glance at her via the rear view mirror. "What's that?" he asked. Janette kept her eyes focused on the list of last know associates for the dead man she seemed assigned to investigate. "Seems we are headed to Miami" she murmured in answer. One name in particular stood out. Sam Axe. Her pulse fluttered with anticipation. If Sam were involved in anyway she could depend that things would indeed go sideways, and hell if she wouldn't enjoy the ride.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Michael sat beneath the jaunty sweep of a sun gold shade umbrella on the small dinning patio of the Mar Harbor Café. The air had a slightly briny bite. Sleek motorized sport fishing rigs rumbled past on their way to open water. Foot traffic trended more towards weekday contractors making their living off the high end onboard lifestyle; artisans, handymen, off duty crew members. The patio area was an eddy of casual middle income socialites, in no apparent rush to be anywhere else. Intricately folded linens fluttered beside polished stemware waiting to deliver a stylish dining experience. A bougainvillea vine twisted up the restaurant's salt bleached side. The restaurant was signature Fiona, charming, expensive, and tucked away a well to do location. The patio had excellent sight lines, multiple escape routes, and was in an area Michael had never frequented. Perfect for a dead man trying to contain any rumors of resurrection. Sam, Fiona and he had

agreed that Michael Westen should remain dead until they had a better understanding around the circumstances of his death. They hadn't agreed quite on how that deed needed to be accomplished.

Michael flipped open a menu. It was a relief to finally escape Sam's small condo. Not that Michael was complaining. Sam certainly knew how to live upscale contemporary luxury. The neighborhood was quiet, the central air efficiently kept the temperature a refreshing 72 degrees in every room, and there was always hot water readily available. But it made Michael wonder how Sam had spent so many voluntary hours without comment in the third world conditions of Michael's old apartment. He shifted slightly in his seat looking for a position that put less pressure on his broken ribs and bruised back.

Honestly, the problem wasn't Sam's apartment, it was Michael. Basic rule of combat: moving targets are harder to hit. Repeat any behavior long enough and it either becomes second nature or a bad habit, depending on your view point. As a result, Michael found it difficult to stay 12 hours in one place without any change in routine. It made him antsy. Add in the fact that he was recovering from significant injuries; Injuries that he still owed his friends and family an explanation for. Then consider that the awaited explanation was sure to cause more awkwardness and disarray than it solved… and the need to move suddenly ratcheted up to a survival instinct to bolt. Michael tugged at the fraying corner of gauze bandaging peeking out from beneath his shirt cuff. He had never been very good at sitting still.

It made matters worse that his every breath was being noted and analyzed between his mother, Nate, Sam and Fi. He tried to keep in mind that under the circumstances their behavior was warranted. A confirmed saint, would have difficulty observing personal space if a miracle had restored her loved one to life. Add insult to injury by supplying a blatant lie in explanation for the loved one's death... Well, none of Michael's circle came close to qualifying for sainthood, they weren't about to forgive and forget any time soon. Michael just happened to be an available outlet for the weeks of grief they had been put through. Michael did his best to endure the forced cheerfulness that resulted in hours of mind numbing small talk, the absurd excuses for "dropping by" on what was obviously a previously arranged visitation schedule, and the inept covert glances that left him without a moment to himself. Michael held together his sanity with a promise

that it would ease up once he could prove that he was healed and capable of taking care of himself. Lunch out was a huge step in that direction.

Fi pushed the car door closed and leaned over to use the side mirror to quickly dab on a light coat of lip gloss. She capped the tube, tossed it in her clutch and gave her hair a quick fluff with her fingers. Satisfied, she slid on a pair of Chloé sunglasses and set off for the Café. She noted the appreciative looks directed her way and smiled. Exactly the reaction she wanted for Michael's first day back on his feet. She felt light, almost giddy. She forced herself to walk with an unhurried confidence, knowing Michael would have chosen a table allowing him to see anyone approaching before they saw him. She wanted him to take a long hard look at what he had been missing.

"Fi" Michael greeted her with the quirk of an appreciative smile. Only Michael could look relaxed while curiously alert to every shifting detail of his surroundings. It gave him a refreshing air of capability that had nothing to do with exerting control. After months of his absence, His presence felt like a brisk breath of clear air. Fi studied him as she choose the seat to his left. Michael was difficult to read. He tended to play personal issues close to his chest and was far too talented at diverting attention from himself. His failure to pull out her chair was the only cue that he still suffered pain from his injuries. Making a mental note to watch that he didn't over tax himself, Fiona smoothed the tailored fabric of her skirt and sat back in her chair.

She glanced casually around the cafe patio locating Sam at the bar, before focusing on Michael. He had lost the pale abused look Larry had sent him home with. Dressed in crisp white and tan, his hair was cut, the bruising around his face had faded. Michael's eyes shifted from his open menu to meet hers. His gaze was steady, clear of any confusion. Fi picked up her menu. "The sword fish is good," she offered. Michael nodded, enjoying the way her hair fell loose down her back.

Fiona had stumbled upon the secluded dining patio of the Del Mar Harbor Café at 2 am on her way to a job as a subject matter resource for a thermoregulatory trigger mechanism. Carlos Miguel Leyva had been a Glenanne family friend for years. Carlos was looking to customize a piece for a client in Panama and Fiona had welcomed a distraction from worrying about Michael's absence. Ironically, stumbling upon the Café had left her with a paralyzing yearning for exactly the man she was trying to distract herself from. For months after she harbored a fantasy of sitting with Michael on the quaint patio. She studied him now from the corner of her eye as he shifted in his seat, lightly tapping his index finger against the wooden table. His eyes flickered over the people passing by. A soft warm breeze fluttered over Fiona's bare shoulders punctuating the surreal quality of the moment. With a sudden need for confirmation, that this was real, Fi reached forward

and laid her hand over his. There was a second of hesitant surprise before he shifted his palm to wrap his fingers around hers.

"I'm ok, Fi" Michael assured her in a low voice.

"I think I'll try the sole," Fiona redirected, laying down her menu.

Michael made to shift away but Fiona refused to relinquish his hand. Fi answered his questioning look with an innocent expectant smile. The pressure of Fi's grip increased. "Fi" Michael warned with a hesitant grin.

"I've been very patient, Michael." Fi gave him an expectant look. "I believe there's something you want to tell me." She prompted.

She watched his eyes darken. It was endearing, how quickly his brain worked assessing appropriate responses; identifying what she was looking for; and mapping out an alternative that both of them could live with. His chest clenched, long due explanations tangled, creating a choke hold at the base of his throat. He struggled to find an exit strategy.

You look great?

It was along the lines of what Michael was thinking. But he quickly discarded it as too obvious to be what she was looking for. Fiona's grip began to squeeze his knuckles together, cutting the blood flow to his fingers.

I'm sorry, I swear I'll make it up to you?

How the hell did he expect to accomplish that? He didn't even have the means to pay for today's lunch.

I missed you?

Hard to make that sound believable while clenching his teeth against the twisting pain pulling at the stitches running along his wrist.

Nice restaurant, can't wait to try the food?

Definitely not, he was getting desperate. "Fi!" He concealed the pain radiating up his wrist with a gritted smile and pried her fingers off. He took a deep breath and crossed his arms so that his fingers were tucked out of harms way.

Sam walked up coddling four Dos Equiis. Throwing himself into a seat he offered one to Fi and nudged another towards Michael. He glanced between Michael's guarded body language and Fi's narrowed calculating glare. "Uh, should I go get a few more beers?" He asked.

Michael wrapped finger's still throbbing from Fi's pressure around the offered bottle and brought the beer to his lips. Fi smiled tightly. Michael wasn't getting off that easily. "Don't be ridiculous," Fiona said brightly, "Michael was just about to explain the tan line on his ring finger." Her smile widened with satisfaction as Michael struggled to keep the beer from spraying in surprise. "Whoa, don't waste a perfectly cold beer! C'mon!" Sam admonished waving his double fisted beers in accusation at the two of them. "Besides," Sam added with a nod for emphasis, leaning back to balance on two chair legs, "It's not like any of them were real, right Mikey? Just a perk of the job." Michael went perfectly still glaring sharply at Sam.

"Not helping Sam!" He ground out. Michael fixed a huge "Who me" smile into place before turning back to Fi.

Fi sat stiffly with open eyed outrage, "Them?" she fumed. Michael could practically feel the threat of violence rolling off of her slim frame. "Exactly how many times have you been married?" She asked pinning him with the intensity in her eyes. Michael stared back at her unsure how to proceed, watchful for any move towards violence. A waiter headed to collect their order, sensed the tension at the table, and tactfully redirected to check on other guests. Aware that he may have caused a serious problem, Sam leaned forward until all four chair legs were planted on the floor planks. He prayed that he wasn't about to catch an errant barb as Fi and Michael faced off with the intense focus of fighters poised before the clash of battle. Sam took a swig of courage and cleared his throat nervously. "Uh, C'mon guys. It's just a piece of paper…" Sam's joking laugh sounded flat.

"How many?" Fi hissed

"In some situations a married man is considered less of a security concern," Michael responded softly. He resisted the urge to back away as Fiona leaned dangerously close, pressing the subject. "They call it an act of marriage for a reason, Fi. It's something you have to actually do to mean anything."

"Was I real?" She asked. Her breath caressed his jaw with a siren's effect. He struggled to masque how his pulse shuddered in response.

"I couldn't have succeeded without your help, but you were not a direct objective." Michael carefully qualified. Fi studied him looking for any tell that he was lying, trying to understand the nuance between an objective and an asset and what that meant to Michael. He watched her battle for control of her emotions. They radiated from her with diamond brilliance attracting him like a ghost to the living. He blinked, suddenly unsure why he cared to hide the truth. Fiona's force of will had always managed to play havoc with his tactically analyzed plans. Beyond a general aversion for discussing himself, he struggled to recall why he didn't want her to know. "Twelve." He surrendered. Fiona nodded. She sat back, struggling to balance the thrill of victory with the bitterness of the truth.

Sam whistled in disbelief. "Damn, Mikey. I had no idea. I mean, I met the girl in Laos. She was a tad too institutional for my tastes. And I assumed there was one on the last job, but twelve? Heh! I think maybe you should reconsider your mom's suggestion to see that shrink."

"Thanks, but no," Michael ground his thumb against the pressure building behind his temple. "I look like a walking suicide risk. A vacation in a padded cell with 24-hour surveillance is the last thing I need at the moment."

"How do **we** know, you aren't?" Fi asked. "You won't talk to us. It's been over a week and you won't tell us anything." A touch of vulnerability had crept into her voice and she had wrapped her arms across her chest in a defensive gesture. He had hurt her without intending to, hadn't he known this would happen? Why did she have to keep pushing? The knowledge agitated him, his back hurt, his head hurt… The pain wore him down. Maybe Sam had been right this was too soon, Michael doubted. Why had he pushed so hard to spend the afternoon out, so quickly after getting back on his feet.

"Mike," Sam took a deep breath and stalled with a swig of beer. Michael could hear Sam searching for a new approach as he rubbed a thumb over day old stubble, "I've seen plenty of buddies get up from a leather couch with their wires in a worse tangle than when they sat down. But you need to talk to somebody. And if you can't say anything to Fi or I because it's classified, then… All I'm saying is maybe you should consider Maddie's suggestion."

In a brittle voice Michael clarified, "Classify what? Seven military men on furlough chose the wrong object of entertainment. What more do you need to hear?" There had been head trauma because the memories came as a powerful stream of sound, smell, and touch disturbingly void of visuals. The bitter flavor of fear collecting against the soft underside of his tongue. The numbing chill of metal as skin and muscle parted in it's wake. The heated smell of alcohol and cologne carried on the musk of an unwashed body. There were no questions, no relevance to anything greater than the sick games of a pack of boys watching an insect squirm as it's wings were pulled from it. In his mind he had failed the mission days before. His stomach clenched. Saliva rushed forward in preparation of the rising bile. Michael propped his elbow against the table and clamped his palm across his mouth. The table was silent except for the flapping of the table cloth on the breeze. One glance at Sam's slack stare told Michael he had said more than he had intended. He cursed himself for running his mouth off unaware.

He couldn't look at Fi. He wanted to explode from his seat, fling the chair across the boardwalk and storm out of the restaurant, but that would show an unforgivable lack of control. So instead, he remained still and threw his anger into restricting his body to even breathing and refusing all urges to move. Even the sharp requests to ease pressure points against his broken ribs went denied. He kept busy studying the movement of people around them as an excuse not to meet Sam or Fi's worried glances. "I'm fine," he added as much to comfort himself as well as Fi and Sam.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

Soft morning light played across the huge parabolic ceiling of Dulles International Airport. A soaring cathedral built in honor of the modern day pilgrimage. The marvel of the architecture was lost on the tide of humanity in motion. Special Agent Janette Pelto took her place in one of the labyrinthine check in lines. Dressed in soft shades of grey, she multi-tasked in a sphere of refined calm. Two black carry on bags sat neatly at her heels. Janette texted terse responses to inquiries in her message box, while maintaining an efficient following distance from the pair of technology executives in front of her.

The CSI unit had sent her a copy of their report yesterday afternoon. Four bodies. Josh Geiss, Terry Bass, Ginny Llanes, and Michelle Kunert. All of them accounted for except for their heads. She and agent Mathews had spent the rest of the evening completing request forms to begin compiling background information on the victims. All of them worked for government in some capacity, but there weren't many similarities beyond that. Janette intended using the three hour flight to Miami to start piecing together a hypothesis on motive.

The case was fairly straight forward. Every detail from the crime scene corresponded word for word to a debriefing with the recently deceased, Mr. Westen. Reading between the classified blacked out lines the record said he killed and quartered four young Sudanese, left them in orderly piles in an act to destabilize the power base of a rising colonel in the SPLA. The heads had been packaged and mailed to the colonel as a statement of intent. Gruesome, but surprisingly effective; the colonel promptly left his political post and vanished with his family. In Janette's experience, people tended to repeat past successes. Acts in which consequences were escaped, tended to become a criminals signature. Still, Agent Mathews had given her a questioning look when she had decided to leave a dead guy, on the active list of suspects.

Janette glanced up from the viewing pane of her phone. Understanding a deed's how and why usually came together based on evidence. In this case, evidence was all circumstantial. Not only would she need to prove Westen had killed these four people, she would have to prove that he was still alive. Janette grimaced, if Westen was alive, then at some point she would be doing laps in mail parcel warehouses in the hopes of finding human heads. Not her idea of fun. She made a mental note to keep her athletic sneakers in the car. Keeping pace with pack of canines across miles of cement flooring was hell in a pair of heels.

Janette stepped up to the Airline ticket agent and displayed her picture ID. The man hardly glanced at her preferring to interface with the two dimensional image on her driver's license. His finger's ticked across a keyboard with a mind of their own. The mechanical screech of a printer spit out her boarding pass, which was shuffled into a grey and white wrapper along with a promotional slip for Avis rent a car and the Sky mall. The agent added a final flourish of red ink around the gate number and handed her the package with a bright smile. "Flight 160 to Charleston will begin preboarding in ten minutes at gate 17C. Thank you for flying the friendly skies with United."

Janette accepted the boarding pass and faltered. The ticket agent's smile flattened as she failed to make way for the next in line. "Is there something else I can help you with?" he asked. Janette placed the boarding pass back on the counter. "Yes," She read his name pin. "Brad, I was under the impression that I was headed to Miami." Brad glanced down at the boarding gate with it's splashy circle of red. He turned slowly back to his console. His fingers pecked at the keyboard as if working against their programming. A manager walked over to hover over his shoulder. "I'm sorry Miss Pelto, but you are confirmed for the flight to Charleston." Brad paused as the manager at his shoulder murmured instruction. He tapped at the keyboard again. "We still have available seats on Flight 254 to Miami leaving at 4:28 this afternoon. A charge would apply." Brad glanced past her at his unmoving ticket line. Janette frowned. She wasn't prepared to put the cost of a set of airline tickets on her credit card. "No thanks," She fingered the boarding pass for Charleston and stepped away.

With her carry-ons in tow Janette hit quick dial on her phone and headed towards gate 17C. "Mathews! It's Pelto. I'm about to board a flight to Charleston. Please tell me what the hell is going on!" Janette could hear the chaos of printing machines and voices like static on the line. Mathew's sounded slightly out of breath. "Uh, yeah change of plans. The order just came in. There's another crime scene. I'll fax details to United's customer lounge in Charleston. Local PD is supposed to meet you when you come off the plane."

Janette sighed "Charleston? This is why they don't book us out of National Airport. Fine. I'll call you when I get there." She silenced her phone and headed for preboarding.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

"Twelve?" Fiona snarled hurling a collection of branded shopping bags onto her bed. She fell still waiting for an emotion to emerge as dominant from the turbulent chaos she felt inside. She stared uncertainly around the sparse elegance of her bedroom. It would take her 20 minutes max to have it all packed up then she could be gone. Fight or flight; she sent the questing thought into the ethos hoping for an answer. Fiona had been raised Roman Catholic. But after her sister's funeral, she hadn't been able to shake the church's association with death. She no longer attended services, but she still tended to direct questions towards the void, listening on the off chance that an answer might be returned.

Her gaze settled on a small picture frame perched on the ledge of her white washed bedside table. She stepped around the corner of her bed to snatch up the small memento. It was a fairly recent picture of the three of them. She had folded back the photo to crop Sam out. She smiled proudly back at herself from Michael's side. Michael cut a fine figure, the light blue of his shirt reflected in his eyes. He looked slightly uncomfortable in front of a camera. His head was turned slightly toward her, as if distracted from the initial goal of taking a group picture.

"Twelve," Fi curled the small frame into her fist. Sure spies were famous for their womanizing, but that wasn't Michael, was it? She had suspected one. Been prepared to weather the possibility of two. But twelve? It was a concept you applied to eggs or donuts, not wives. Women constantly threw themselves at Michael. She noticed even when he didn't. But other than herself, he hadn't dated once during the four years of the burn notice. How many boyfriends had she paraded in front of him during that time? Fi pushed the picture away into a drawer and turned toward the large homage to consumerism lying on her bed. She really had spent too much. Retail therapy was definitely going to come back and haunt her monthly credit statement. She frowned and pulled a large black bag towards her. "Therapy" hadn't left her feeling any better about the number twelve.

Maybe pay back would feel better. Fi pulled a length of deepest black from the bag and laid it out across the cream of her bedspread. The dress was a complex design of black on black, pleats and folds carefully worked to entice with glimpses of skin. Fiona frowned. She had purged most of the black from her wardrobe when she had left New York for Miami. The act had signaled a new beginning; color, life, hope. She ran her fingers over the dark pool of fabric. Fiona pulled her fingers back and considered returning the dress unworn. Twelve alone was a difficult number to get past, but even if she could, that left her holding the unlucky number 13. "Fine! Payback was a …" Fi jerked the dress off the bed and headed for the bathroom. Michael wanted them to all act as if he were dead while he figured out what to do. He didn't seem to care how they felt about the ridiculous request, so tonight she would hit the clubs and give the performance of a life time. "Just for you!" Fiona thought bitterly, twisting on the shower to get the hot water moving.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

James Kalmbach bullied his way past a heavy wooden door into the welcoming shadows of the Rue Neuf Bistro. He hung his coat and stomped the chill Chinook slush from his boots. He wasted a few minutes finger combing the thinning scruff on his head before heading for the hunched raison d'être for his efforts and wedged his bulk in against the wood grain of the bar. "viens souvent ici? James raised his hand to the bartender.

"Don't be an ass." Larry growled.

James smiled and settled back onto a padded perch. His eyes traveled the room. Happy with the geography of the clientele he accepted a pint from the bartender and studied his old friend. "You're early. My buyer doesn't like surprises." James paused waiting for an explanation. Larry shrugged and brought his glass to his lips. Same ole Larry, James thought with a hint of frustration, too clever to feel obliged to even his highest paying clients. Well, the hell with him… James hesitated as a thought struck him. "Is this because of the kid?" He asked.

Larry's gaze burned dangerously at James. "Kids tend to be stupid." He answered in a voice radiating contempt. "Westen bought what he paid for. Are you going to deal or should I join a different table?"

James sighed heavily, now Sizemore's erratic behavior made more sense. James had always suspected Larry had a soft spot for his prized student. James smothered the compassion he that threatened to surface. "A stupid waste of an opportunity if you ask me; any number of organizations would have paid well for Westen and not all of them wanted him dead. The Larry Sizemore I know would have capitalized on that." James took a swig of his beer.

Larry Sizemore stared angrily into the amber depths of his beer. Wondering about Westen's fate had become a dangerous preoccupation of late; One that would cost Larry his life if he wasn't careful. It was also the reason he was in Toronto two weeks earlier than planned. It galled him that James was able to pick up on his disquiet. "Westen was just one of a dozens meat heads sent my way for finishing school. What other outcome could there be when they are up against men like us?"

James studied Larry over the frothy edge of his mug. Despite the flippant tone the man had aged. It was the first in a lifetime that James had ever seen the consummate spy show any wear. The signs were minor. Tiny fissures beneath the impenetrable surface: the slight blush of insomnia beneath the eyes, a hunched inward tilt to his body language.

James shrugged. "Fine, Americans can't stand the thought of others playing with their second hand toys, I get it. But people are talking. Rumors that the burn notice dulled the blade, that uncle Sam decided re-sharpening was too much effort. Congratulations, your country just insulted one of the more dangerously unpredictable strata of international citizens."

The lecture made Larry seethe. Go to hell Larry thought. James' failing had always been a failure to restrain his emotional side. Rattle the cage hard enough and James would charge straight for you like a raging bull. One day, Larry silently promised, someone will offer up an incentive for you, and I'll be there to collect. Larry kept his eyes focused on the beer in his glass. James fell heavily forward, the bar groaned beneath his weight. "You have no idea what you've stirred up."

What I've stirred up? Dammit, guilt forced the memory of trussing the kid up and hastily folding his unconscious form into an animal transport cage. Larry starred numbly at the evidence that Westen did indeed effect him. He began to hope Sam Axe lived up to his washed up, ex seal reputation and couldn't muster his rust reflexes fast enough to save Westen's life. At least then, Larry could finally be free of these feelings and move on.

James heavy hand settled on Larry's shoulder. "This game isn't what it used to be." Larry's eyes darted across the dimness of the bar. Some hollow note in James voice set his paranoia quivering in alarm. This was a trap. His focus slid back to James' concerned eyes. You're dead, Larry silently promised. Larry's eyes slid across the room evaluating his options. (Two men beside the front door huddled over their drinks trying to conceal the bulge of shoulder holsters) He ignored James' false condolences. (Another at the pay phone with the receiver clamped to his ear and a hand resting casually beneath his down coat blocked the bathrooms) James continued to drone, refusing to address the sale Larry had come for. What are you waiting for? Larry wondered. (Two heavy set construction types sat at the window booth)

Larry frowned, the situation was going to require some creative ingenuity. His eyes darted up to the access panel in the ceiling behind the bar.

Realizing he had lost his audience, James grabbed Larry's arm as he reached beneath his jacket's lapel. "Are you suicidal?" James hissed. "They'll shoot you dead on the spot." Larry shifted to complete the connection of his fingers against the grip of his gun. "Then none of you will ever see that data chip. But a group of pre-planners like your selves have probably already considered that." Larry ignored James' pleading look. It didn't matter if James had a hand in the set up or not, because regardless, there was only one person Larry cared to see escape alive, himself. Giving to James's pull, Larry whipped out the gun and shot twice over the big man's shoulder. James stumbled backward, his ear drum ruptured by the gun's rapport. Diving over the bar Larry sent another bullet racing towards the pay phone.

An encore of silenced coughs followed him shattering glass and splintering wood in his wake. Like a madman Larry yanked drawers from their runners, dumping their contents in a frantic search for inspiration. A spill of Rue Neuf Bistro matchbooks caught his eye. Yanking a bar cloth from the sub counter above, he tore strips as he calculated which bottle of liquor he could retrieve without getting his hand blown off. The bartender shifted, an unwilling co-occupant of Larry's entrenched position. Larry swung his gun on the sweaty man. Larry indicated the liquor display. The man hesitated, he looked like a rabbit on the verge of bolting. Larry cocked the gun in threat. The bartender darted up. The flash of his pale hand igniting a volley of bullets. Glass shelves vaporized in a deadly spray of glass and vermouth. The bartender huddled back in shock, slow to realize his success. Larry scuttled to his side and yanked a bottle of vodka from his hands. He

doused the strip of rag and stuffed it into the flared neck. Maneuvering across the slick floor he struck matches until one flared. The bartender stared in horror a the flame and bolted for the end of the bar. Taking advantage of the distraction Larry hurled the bottle towards the sound of gunfire. The alcohol soaked wood ignited with a flash, men screamed in pain, and thick grey smoke mushroomed outward.

Larry grabbed a knife from the sink and hurtled himself up through the plywood panel into the crawl space. Bullets punctured holes around him. Adrenaline pushed him forward across the ceiling struts towards the back of the building. Smoke was rapidly displacing the breathable air. The wiring for the pay phone pointed the way. Larry measured four feet beyond the point where the wires disappeared down from the ceiling. Scoring the plaster board with the knife, Larry palmed his gun and jumped feet first.

The man assigned to block the back door was fast. He recovered quickly from the sight of a man bursting through the ceiling and got off a shot before Larry nailed him in the head. Larry stumbled, but managed to keep his feet. Turning, he sprinted for the door leaving a trail flecked in red. Fortunately, the fire had drawn a crowd. Within seconds Larry lost himself in the throng.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

Fiona lounged elegantly against the butter cream leather of a love seat cradling a flute of pale gold Krug Clos d'Ambonnay 1995 in her slender fingers. The look of mild boredom on her face was genuine unlike the affectations adopted by most of the occupants in the VIP lounge. Her black dress pooled dramatically around her leaving enticing glimpses of the bronzed skin beneath. Her hair was artfully coiled at the nape of her slender neck, fixed it in place with jet studded pins. The effect was a stunning mix of predatory expense that had even the jaded door bouncer scrambling in haste to allow her entry to the exclusive club.

The VIP lounge featured an expansive view of the undulating mass of Miami 's most beautiful, dancing beneath the crystalline chandelier of the Mansion Club. Women refused to acknowledge her, men stared with open appreciation, and her host richly deserved the abuse she was in the mood to deliver. The situation should have made her feel better.

A furtive movement at the bar caught her attention. Illuminated by the strobing dance lights, her host shook their champaign bottle with vulgar disregard for it's $3,500 price tag. "Honestly?" Fiona thought in disgust. The man deserved to be castigated for ruining such fine Champaign with something as crass as a date drug. Fiona leaned forward and delicately spit her champaign back into her stemware. Placing the glass down on a side table, Fiona considered the unappealing idea that the source of one's pampering might actually matter. "Yet another sobering thought, thank you very much Mr. Weston!" Fiona thought sourly.

Fiona slipped out of the VIP area and pushed her way into the general populace of the dance club in search of Javier Mandez the 4th, an heir to a lawn fertilizer fortune with little regard for fine Champaign . Not a bad looking kid, but as far as Fiona could tell the only thing Javier had ever earned for himself was the beating she was about to give him.

Her mark was chatting up a trio of barely legal blonds fresh from the spring break surf. Time to make my move, Fiona thought, before he offers a round of his doctored Champaign . Stumbling past the blonds in to Javier's chest, Fiona pasted on a wide loopy grin and forced an unfocused haziness to her gaze. Javier's large hands slid over her hips, pulling her tight against his crotch. "Hey baby," he crooned, struggling to pull his wistful glance from the blonds retreating assets. "I was just on my way back. Did you miss me?" Fiona nodded clumsily and let her head fall back to expose the delicate tendons of her neck in temptation. Javier took the bait with a chuckle. The feel of his wet lips suckling against her pulse made her shudder in disgust. To cover the reaction, she pushed him back. "Let's go somewhere more private."

"Sure baby," he crooned, "The limo is just outside." Taking the Champaign bottle from his hand Fiona pantomimed taking a long sip. Javier lit up with anticipation. Locking his arms around her waist he began maneuvering her backward through the crowd. His fingers greedily fisting the fabric of her dress, inching the hemline upward. Fiona realized she would need to expedite this exit or there would be witnesses to the beating Javier was about to receive.

Fiona stepped from the Limo and brushed at the lingering creases left by Javier in the fabric of her dress. She simply couldn't understand a male's inability to appreciate fashion as an art form. It galled her that Javier would most likely regain consciousness with little comprehension at how lightly he had gotten off. She hardly considered a few bruises and abject humiliation a satisfactory sentence. She cradled his neatly folded Armani suit beneath her arm. She had already graciously donated his shoes and shirt to a homeless man. The beautiful silk sheen of the suit had seemed too valuable to simply give away. Fi sighed, mild violence and the acquisition of an Armani suit was meager fare for her dark mood. The night just wasn't turning out as satisfactorily distracting as she had hoped. Javier's faults had just made Michael appealing in comparison. Good thing she wasn't the sort to give up easily.

Pulling her shoulders back she abandoned the limo to weave her way towards the halogen lit focal point of a crowded intersection. She didn't care that the neighborhood would have the vehicle stripped in less than 20 minutes. The warm latino beat of the Miami night was muffled by the high pitched scream of motorcycle engines. People moved like shadows amongst the brilliant plumage of the sleek street bikes. At ground zero a graffiti start line had been tattooed on the black asphalt. Fiona's smile had a predatory edge, here was action that could actually deliver on her need for a diversion. Now to find herself a ride, she thought.

She studied a brindled blue Ducati 1098 as it roled up to the starting line. The dark striations in the paint seemed to ripple with life as it passed beneath the light. Coated in black leather, it's jockey uncoiled from it's back to support the beast while runners were sent into the crowd in search for an opponent. Fiona moved closer, scanning the onlookers, trying to anticipate who would answer the challenge. A whippet thin boy of 12, streaked past her waving a pink slip. The challenge had been answered. Fiona smiled with admiration as an iridescent gold Suzuki Hayabusa emerged from the night. It's smooth rumble caused onlookers to hesitate like a school of nervous minnows. The Ducati wobbled as it's rider twisted trying to make out the threat. The Hayabusa was rare even for the lux capabilities of Miami. The motorcycle statistically outclassed the Ducati in both speed and horse power.

Fiona almost felt sorry for the owner of the Ducati. The race's outcome was virtually a forgone conclusion. A heated argument erupted at the start line. A squat man in white linen had materialized to argue the unfair matchup. The Ducati's rider abandoned the bike to join the escalating exchange. Event coordinators, designated by the red of their Cardinals head gear began to assemble. By standers joined in, hurling opinions on the fire, anticipating a physical melee to erupt. The rider of the Hayabusa remained detached, the occasional revved whine of the engine showing the only hint of dissatisfaction. Fiona joined the surge toward the start line, covertly trading Javier's expensive suit for a helmet on her way.

In her mind, the Hayabusa deserved it's race and she was in a mood to set the world to rights. Hitching up the hem of her slinky black dress she swung her leg over the Ducati, pulling it upright between her thighs. The beast purred to life and Fiona turned to regard the silvered face guard of the other rider. Let's do this, Fiona willed. A slight nod, and the rider of the Hayabusha crouched low in expectation. Fiona gunned the Ducati, jetting forward from the crowd. Confusion left the mob of onlookers ineffectual. Their objecting voices were quickly swallowed by the scream of the racer's engines.

The Ducati had issued the challenge, so Fiona had control over setting the race course until she lost the front position. She could hear the deep purr of the Hayabusha close behind. The Ducati would only be able to compete if she used the obstacles of the course to negate the Hayabusha's superior speed and power. Time to make this interesting, she thought. Pouring on the speed, Fiona jack rabbited across two lanes of oncoming traffic, to ricochet off a dingy adobe pawn shop into a tight alley. The Ducati fishtailed past dumpsters, bumping over broken pallets. Fiona's pulse sang, pleased by the precious seconds gained before the echo of the Hayabusha rejoined her. Sliding through a confetti of broken glass, Fiona snapped a hard left up a narrow staircase. The Hayabusha rubbed at the Ducati's back wheel impatiently. Jerking on the brake, Fiona jammed the other racer to a complete standstill before catapulting out onto the raised ledge of an industrial loading bay.

The Ducati flashed between loaded pallets and cargo containers. The driver of the Hayabusha dogged her every twist. Fiona turned toward a becon of light showing from a half raised bay door. Shifting her leg up beneath her she pulled the bike into a slide to clear the space. Behind her the wheel of the Hayabusha hit the bottom of the metallic sliding door with a thunk. Quickly Fi pulled the Ducati upright, kicked it back to life and jetted past startled factory workers. She wound past industrial blue bins of fish in search of an exit. Production halted as workers stopped to gawk at her passing. She kicked open a fire exit door just as the angry call of the Hayabusha reverberate off the warehouse interior. "Come and get me," Fiona thought with begrudging admiration. She pushed the Ducati into the night and gunned the engine.

Time to get a little distance. The Ducati surged beneath her. The warm night air whistled past her bare shoulders. The soft fabric of her dress shifted against her skin as her breast swelled with a sigh of release. Worry, self doubts, anger… all of it fell away lost in the immediacy of the moment. Fiona smiled savoring the moment. The Hayabusha materialized to her left with surprising speed. Fiona instructed the other motorcyclist on the mercenary tactics of back alley racing. Through it all, Hayabusha stuck with her with dogged determination.

Fiona's palms were slicked from exertion against the grip of her Ducati when the sound beneath her tires shifted from cement to the staccato of wood planks. The pier was deserted at this hour. The Hayabusha couldn't overtake her, so the rider had dogged her left in an effort to coral her against the ocean. Fiona laughed to herself, the rider had a surprise coming. She snugged herself down between the handle grips and poured on the speed. To hell or high water she thought headed straight for the dark horizon that marked open water. Both motorbikes hit the end of the pier and tumbled in free fall.

Fiona surfaced laughing. Below her the receding headlights of both motorcycles illuminated the surrounding seawater a luminous aqua. Fiona un-strapped her helmet and tossed it aside. A few feet away the other rider unmasked, releasing a tumble of long blond hair and a sultry feminine smile. The other woman sent her helmet below the water's surface and smiled. "Wonderful," she exclaimed in an exotic accent. "Shall we swim back and find a place to get a drink?" Fiona nodded eagerly as she regarded a true kindred spirit.


End file.
